The Mare from Snowy River
by Deb3
Summary: Far, far out AU. What if the CSI characters were horses?


Title: The Mare from Snowy River

Rating: PG

Far Out Warning: I have it on good authority from the one person I bounced this idea off in detail that this is "pretty far out even for AU." I have to concede that point. Therefore, please do not read while you are in a mundane, ordinary, status quo mood. This won't appeal to all of you regardless of mood. If it doesn't, you know where the delete button is.

Disclaimer: CSIM is not mine. The movie the Man from Snowy River is not mine, but it is my all-time favorite movie. Nothing else comes remotely close to it, IMHO. Stunning music, beautiful horses, romance, incredible scenery, and an final 20 minutes that is one of the best-shot action sequences I've ever seen, an opinion shared by many movie experts I've read. If you have never seen it, rent it and treat yourself. A. B. "Banjo" Paterson is an actual person, an Australian poet best known for "Waltzing Matilda," although he wrote a great deal else, including a ballad called "the Man from Snowy River" in the late 1800s which formed the platform for the movie's story line. The ballad can be read at if you're interested. Paterson is long dead and thus could not be reached for permission, but I am convinced that I have depicted him accurately, judging the man from his works, and I think he would approve of himself here. The Shakespeare quotation comes from Henry V.

That's-Not-Nice Disclaimer: If you like Hagen and Yelina, be warned. Especially Hagen. Yelina is only mentioned on the fringes.

Dedication: To the horses of my life, who have inspired me with their beauty, humbled me with their honesty, honored me with their friendship, and granted me the incomparable experience of flight without wings.

(H/C)

The credits finished rolling, and the soaring music faded to a memory. After a few seconds of blackness on the screen, the tape hit the end and started automatically to rewind. The movie was replaced on the screen with some mindless sit-com, but neither of the room's occupants stirred. They were nestled together comfortably on the couch, sound asleep. An unfinished pizza was abandoned in a box on the floor. After 36 hours straight of work with no respite, the case had finally been finished earlier that afternoon, and Horatio had dismissed the entire team to get some rest and relaxation. He and Calleigh had really planned to specialize on the latter, but exhaustion overcame preference. The late afternoon sun blazed through the window and spotlit the two sleepers, illuminating red and gold intertwined highlights. Neither of them noticed.

(H/C)

Hagen's teeth clenched firmly on the cigar as the smoke rose and the red-rimmed ash line advanced. He did not so much smoke the cigar as conquer it, as he conquered everything, a domineering man knowing his own status in the area. The townsfolk weren't sure about his status, but they knew his money. For most of them, that was enough to buy at least feigned respect. The silent language of glances remained unbought, but Hagen, never one for subtlety, didn't notice. To his mind, the world bowed to his wallet, and that was as it should be. He stood by the sales corral now, his arms draped across the top panel of the fence and one booted foot half raised to rest on a lower rail. He was trying to appear casual. He missed it by a mile.

"Next one, mates," the auctioneer called to the stockmen in the large corral beyond the smaller one. The gate swung open, and the next horse entered. Beside Hagen, Tripp's hand tightened slightly on the top rail. It was his only outward sign of interest, but at least four of those at the auction who were watching him instead of Hagen spotted it. They weighed their own wallets against the expert judgment of Tripp as a horseman against the dainty mare in the ring. Their chances depended solely on whether Hagen chose to listen to his foreman or dismiss him as a reminder of who was in charge. That depended solely on Hagen's mood of the day.

"Good one," Tripp said succinctly.

Hagen eyed the mare. She had a fine, dished, almost Arab face, very odd among the horses of the area, most of whom were at least part brumby, a type tough as nails but hardly refined. Her frame was small but sturdy, and her coat glistened pure gold. "Might make a broodmare if she's got the bloodlines," Hagen offered. No horse without a pedigree was worth his interest. He attended the auction to sneer as much as to buy.

"More," Tripp offered. "Good sturdy riding horse. The size is deceiving. Might not be broke yet, though. She's young."

The auctioneer, having let the mare speak for herself for a minute, launched his spiel. "Real treat here for you, mates. One of the last foals from the Watson farm up the Snowy River country. You all know their horses. Pedigreed stock, but raised on mountain pasture. Bloodlines and toughness. This little mare is the last foal from their famous thoroughbred, Old Regret. Let's open up the wallets, now, and help this family. You all know they lost the farm two years ago. Tried to hang onto this one filly, but they couldn't. Hard times."

"Mismanagement," Hagen muttered. Having enough money to ride out the economy, he read it as a sign of weakness in others that the depression altered their lives. Tripp, who was only working for Hagen because of the depression, said nothing, out of long practice. Silence with him did not give consent.

The bidding was spirited, but once Hagen, convinced of the mare's pedigree, started participating, the only question from that point was how high the price would be. Hagen refused to be beaten, in an auction or anything else. Perversely, several of the mountain men kept bidding, going far beyond their means, simply to annoy him. It worked.

"A thousand pounds!" There was a respectful rustle, and then the one other man still bidding, who didn't have one hundred pounds to his name and who had raised to nine-fifty, gave Hagen a mocking salute and turned away.

"Damned, independent, stubborn fool," Hagen swore. "Pedigree or not, she's not worth that."

"You could've stopped," Tripp offered. "Would've gotten her anyway. He couldn't pay."

Hagen's teeth clamped down so hard they bit the cigar in two. "When I want advice from you, I'll let you know. Go get the mare, Frank."

Calleigh pressed her nose flat against the rails of the holding corral beyond the sales ring. Her legs were steady, but her heart was pounding. Too many changes the last few days. Too many changes the last few years, actually. She could dimly remember the smell of the mountains, the feel of the rough, challenging ground beneath her tiny hooves. For more of her life, the smells and sounds had been of the city, but freedom, though a distant memory, still burned in a corner of her heart. At least, until the last few days, there had been the people, the familiar hands and voices of those who had loved her since her birth. Leaving the mountains was bearable while she could stay with her people. Now, she had lost them both. Familiarity is treasure to a horse, but nothing about this place – sights, smells, voices, or the echo of the ground beneath her feet – was familiar.

Tripp opened the corral gate, slipped through, and stood there. He held a halter in his hands, but his arms stayed down by his sides. He had seen the nervous roll of the eyes, and he couldn't blame the mare, given the confusion of the stockyards. He simply stood, allowing her to notice him, which she did almost immediately. Any group of horses knows which one will be singled out and caught, even before a move is made. Calleigh knew he had come for her, no other. She eyed him, and he remained as still as one of the fence posts. His face and frame were tough and weathered, like the trunk of an oak tree, but his heart was kind, and like any good horse, Calleigh read his heart, not his face. She read experience, steadiness, and knowledge. He was not familiar, but his type was, and her ears relaxed a bit. Seeing the change, Tripp spoke for the first time. "Come on, now," he said in his deceptively gruff voice. He still stayed by the gate. Calleigh hesitated, then came to him slowly, one uncertain step at a time. He waited until she was beside him to raise the hand without the halter and touch her gently on the neck. His hands were callused, strong, but gentle, hands a horse could trust. Calleigh dipped her nose into the halter, and he buckled it securely, then turned so they faced the same direction, opening the corral gate, firmly gripping the lead rope just below her chin. He asserted his quiet authority, and she accepted it and stepped through willingly at his side, spinning to allow him to close the gate once they were outside the fence. Tripp was just fastening the gate securely when a harsh voice like approaching thunder shattered the relaxation he had gained.

"Tripp, what's taking so long? We haven't got all day." Hagen stomped up.

Calleigh spooked, half-rearing, and Tripp firmly but gently brought her down. "Whoa, there," he soothed, and the voice ran along her nervousness and eased it. "Sorry, boss. Took me a while to catch her."

"You could have roped her."

"No need," Tripp insisted. Hagen walked around them in a circle, inspecting his new property.

"Bit spooky, is she?"

"Not if she's handled right," Tripp muttered, sotto voce.

"What's that?"

"She's just nervous. Too much new. She'll settle."

Hagen ran his hands over her. Hard, dominating hands, and Calleigh flinched and stamped a hoof. "No girth marks. I don't think she's broke yet."

Tripp bent to pick up a front hoof, inspecting the wear. "No shoes yet, and no more weight than her own."

Hagen shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'll break her like a horse should be broke."

Tripp cringed inwardly. "Maybe I could find the time."

"Your job is what I tell you, Frank. Don't forget that." Hagen gave the mare a possessive slap on the neck. "Take her back to the ranch. I'll be along later. And tell Yelina, if you see her, I might have a neat little saddle mare for her. Once she's broke, of course. A thousand pounds, Frank. That's a record. Ought to make the paper." Suddenly happy at the thought of his publicly-demonstrated financial status, Hagen swept away through the crowd, enjoying the way they cleared a path for him. Calleigh, looking after him, shook her head and snorted.

Tripp touched her lightly on the neck. "You can say that again. Let's go, girl." He led her off toward the livery stable to pick up his own mount.

(H/C)

Alexx came out of the back door and around the side of the large house to the firewood pile. She had been working hard since before sunrise, and she allowed herself a well-deserved, stolen moment of respite before she bent to pick up the wood. Her eyes traveled the sweeping, ostentatious walls of her prison. The house itself was the largest for hundreds of miles, and the barn was equally grand. Countless corrals and yards held horses or cattle. Men on horseback worked in the pastures. Hagen's wealth extended almost to the horizon, but beyond the pastures, beyond the plain, rose the mountains. Alexx looked at them longingly. She had never been there, but she loved them. They defeated Hagen, stopped his advance across the land. Their ageless strength made his wealth insignificant. They refused to be tamed.

Hoofbeats echoed down the road to the distant town, and Alexx quickly looked that way. She hadn't expected Hagen back until after dark, but he would be expecting a hot meal ready for him. If he had come home early, it would be her fault for not anticipating the change in schedule. She relaxed as she saw that it was only Tripp. He cantered easily up the road, riding his own horse, Andy, and leading a dainty, golden mare that made Alexx's eyes widen. She was beautiful, and beauty was in short supply here. Alexx stepped out from the side of the house to the edge of the path to get his attention as he passed on the way to the barns. Tripp wouldn't mind giving her information.

He drew rein ten feet from her, halting the mare beside him with a word. "G'day, Alexx."

"Is Hagen far behind you, Frank?"

"Probably a couple of hours. Had things to do in town after the auction."

Alexx eyed the mare. "He bought her?"

Tripp nodded. "Broodmare. Might make her a saddle horse for Yelina, too."

Somehow, Alexx couldn't picture Hagen's sister, dark fire, on this creature of golden sunlight. On the other hand, she certainly couldn't picture Hagen riding her. "She's pretty." She did not step any closer. Alexx had no experience with horses. Furthermore, Hagen strictly defined the limits of her orbit, and he did not allow her close to his horses. Secretly, he was afraid she would run away. Alexx realized that but had nowhere to run to.

Tripp eyed the mare himself. "She's a good one, all right. Best get on to work. Have things to do before the boss gets back."

He was reminding himself, not her, but Alexx received the message, too. Her eyes went to the mountains once more as Tripp rode on to the barn, and then, she turned back to the firewood. Hagen owned her time. He could never, however, own her thoughts.

(H/C)

The girth was a band squeezing her barrel, the bit a hard, cold piece of metal in her mouth. Calleigh worked her jaw, trying to spit it out, but the leather straps prevented it. "Easy," Tripp soothed, his hand stroking her neck. "Not so bad when you get used to it." Calleigh's restless feet stilled, but she kept champing the bit. It slowly warmed in her mouth. Tripp led her in a circle around the paddock, convincing her that she could still walk wearing a saddle and girth. She began to relax slightly. It was strange, but it wasn't hurting her.

"Tripp." Hagen's voice shattered the early morning quietness. "I'll take her. I want you on the branding today."

Tripp turned to his boss. "She's not quite ready to ride. Need to lunge her for a few more days, let her settle."

"She doesn't need to be relaxed, just obedient. I've been watching. You're going to spoil her." Hagen's hand closed firmly on the reins, jerking the bit in the process, then jerking it harder as Calleigh threw her head in protest. "Get to work."

Tripp gave the mare a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and stepped back reluctantly. Protest was useless. He exited the paddock but then turned back outside the gate to watch. In two days of working with the mare, he had grown to appreciate her fiery spirit. Much as he regretted what was about to happen, he didn't think Hagen would have an easy time of it. His boss could ride, but he had no feeling for his mount. That approach wouldn't work with Calleigh.

Hagen jerked the reins again. "Stand still," he commanded. Calleigh edged sideways, and he hit her hard on the neck. Startled into stillness for a moment – no one had ever struck her – she stood. Hagen raised his foot to the stirrup and swung aboard, landing heavily in the saddle.

The moment of shock passed, and Calleigh bolted, twisting, bucking, frantically trying to rid herself of the creature on her back. Centuries of equine instinct told her that something on her back must be a predator, that the swift death bite at the base of the neck, severing the spine, was coming next. Hagen gave her nothing in words or touch to indicate that her genetic assumption was wrong. Instead, he wrapped his legs tightly around her barrel, steadying himself, and jerked the reins savagely. The mare must be brought under control.

The predator on Calleigh's back clung there mercilessly, and the piece of steel in her mouth sawed into the corners of her lips. She suddenly switched from frantic flight to tactics, heading full speed for the paddock fence, then wheeling just before it and running alongside, scraping Hagen's leg painfully against the boards. He jerked the reins, hauling her head around, and she turned but brought her head around even further than he had intended, turning her neck into a U, teeth bared as she bit at his foot. He hit her on the nose, and she jerked back, bucked once more, then suddenly reared. Tripp saw the change in her eyes and read what she was about to do, and he vaulted the fence into the paddock, calling out a warning to Hagen, even as the mare went up. Her forelegs climbed the sky, up, up, to the point of balance and beyond. Hagen, determined to stay on, realized too late that it was time to bail off, and the mare fell backwards, deliberately throwing herself over, crushing the enemy beneath her into the dirt of the paddock. Calleigh scrambled to her feet, kicked out sharply, her heels landing on flesh with a satisfying thud, and then galloped as far away as the fence would permit. Behind her, Hagen lay still.

From the house, dark eyes had been watching.

(H/C)

Calleigh paced restlessly around her small yard, lifting her head over the gate, staring into the distance through the darkness of the night. The wind was coming from the mountains, and she could taste the memory of freedom. She stretched her nose out toward it, and the bars of the gate bit into her neck. Her ears suddenly sprang to attention, focusing nearer. From the house, soft footsteps were approaching. Not Hagen, who never walked softly. Not Tripp, who would have been coming from the bunkhouse, anyway. Nor was it the dark-haired woman who had come occasionally to admire her like a fine piece of jewelry. These footsteps were unknown. Calleigh braced herself, ready for whatever might emerge from the darkness.

Alexx walked softly, on tiptoe. Her eyes scanned the bunkhouse as well as the house behind her. No lights. It was after midnight, and the world was asleep. Hagen had been knocked unconscious and bruised but not badly hurt and would be up and about in a day or two, but Alexx had seen that fierce battle from the window, and her heart went out to the little golden mare. She had come to a decision at that moment. Hagen could never, should never own that free spirit. Alexx approached the gate. Calleigh was standing there, looking straight at her, ready for battle if needed. Alexx spoke to her. "Easy, girl. I was watching earlier. You didn't kill him today, and he'll be back, but he doesn't deserve you." Alexx stretched one hand through the bars, and Calleigh, listening to her, did not retreat. There was no threat in that hand. Alexx touched her, patting her neck, the house servant patting the mare worth a thousand pounds. For the first time, she was close enough to a horse to smell the rich scent of the mare's coat. She pulled her hand back, then unfastened the gate latch and swung it wide. "Go on," she urged. "There's wild horses in the mountains. There's a place for you to run away to. You've earned it." Calleigh stared at the gap for a moment, unbelieving, then suddenly bolted, her hooves rattling out the gate and down the long drive, unerringly turning for the mountains, not the city, racing toward freedom. Alexx watched her out of sight. From now on, the cook would have a specific image to attach to the mountains when she looked during those stolen moments of her day. She finally headed back for the house, searching herself for guilt. She could find none.

(H/C)

The wind whistled through the mountains, carrying news to those who could interpret it. Horatio knew the language of the wind. He stood on a rise, slightly removed from the peaceful herd grazing and dozing beneath him. Once in a while, one of the wild horses would raise the head, looking around to check the unfailing sentinel, and, reassured by his presence, would turn attention once more to the grass. Horatio's nostrils flared as he skillfully sifted the breeze. There was rain coming within a few hours.

The early rays of the rising sun touched his coat, turning it molten, while the herd remained in shadow in the hollow beneath him. He was a tall, wiry stallion, flaming chestnut. Scars criss-crossed his coat, but every one was an earned badge of freedom and honor. Horatio was a legend of the mountains, possessing unmatched speed and spirit. Many had tried to catch him, but none succeeded. It was Banjo Paterson, the poet, who had named him years ago. Once, riding the ranges, Paterson had seen Horatio on a distant crag, with the sun igniting his coat. Horatio had been aware of him first, of course. The proud head was raised, the ears alert, focused on Paterson even across the large distance between them. Paterson had loved horses all his life, but he had never seen one to match this stallion. As they stared at each other, Paterson, the poet, found words from Shakespeare running through his head. "He is pure air and fire. . . his neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage." So he had given the Shakespearian horse a Shakespearian name. Paterson's ballads and tales covered even more territory than the man himself did, and everyone in the hill country knew the red stallion now as Horatio.

Horatio suddenly came to attention as the wind brought him a new bulletin. Out in the early morning, a horse was galloping. It was a mare, and she had no humans or other horses with her. Horatio trotted easily down the ridge into the herd, over to where two young horses were grazing together. They were almost two years old, not to full strength yet but close enough to be useful to him while still far enough below it to respect him. The taller one was dark, with no markings at all. He spent hours watching Horatio, imitating him, learning to sample the wind like the stallion did. The other one was a bit shorter. His most striking feature was a scraggly mane that grew alternately on both sides of his neck, unable to make up its mind which side to fall to. Horatio snorted at them now, and they split apart from the herd and came on guard. Horatio galloped off on his own, stretching out to his matchless speed, a flaming arrow across the hills.

Calleigh slowed to a canter. Her legs, long away from the mountains, were starting to get tired, but she knew that other horses had been there. She could smell them all over these mountainsides. Somewhere, she would find them. Horatio came with the wind in his face, out of long experience, so she did not smell his approach, and he startled her as he swept over the hill ahead and suddenly appeared before her. She came to a prancing stop, and they sniffed noses. Suddenly, Calleigh wheeled and kicked at him. It was a soft, sociable kick, not like the one she had given Hagen, and Horatio correctly read it as interest. Her heels thudded harmlessly against his side. He pranced around her in a circle, and they touched noses again. Calleigh squealed. Horatio reared up, the mountains ringing with his neigh, and she stood, mesmerized. His hooves dropped to earth, and he started to chivy, guiding her toward the distant herd. She resented the direction at first, but she exulted in the company. She soon discovered that he was faster, too. When she tried to dart away from his shepherding, he would be on the other side as quickly, guiding her back. They were going his direction whether she liked it or not. She kicked at him again and missed as he dodged. He closed his teeth in her mane, pulling gently, and she arched her neck and stood. Again, they touched noses, and this time, she did not kick at him. He galloped a half circle behind her, launching her into action, and then settled to a steady gallop beside her. The red stallion and the golden mare swept over the mountains, heading for the herd.

(H/C)

Tripp dismounted from Andy and faced Hagen at the corrals. "I found clear tracks. She's joined the brumbies."

"Horatio," Hagen spat, making it sound like a curse. "I don't know how she got out, though."

"Don't make much difference now," Tripp pointed out.

"Right." Hagen studied the mountains in the distance. "I've been meaning to go after that horse for years anyway. He's a public menace up there. We'll never get the mountains cleared into useful pasture while that unpedigreed mongrel is loose. He'd steal my stock." It was Horatio's freedom that offended Hagen as much as his unknown bloodlines. Hagen could not stand the thought of anything untamed. To him, Horatio represented the mountains. Conquer one, and he might have a leg up toward conquering the other. Hagen's eyes went back to Tripp, who was standing impassively, his own thoughts securely shielded by his face. "Put the word out. Anyone interested should meet here at sunrise, day after tomorrow. We're going to catch the brumbies. I'll pay anyone who helps us for the day."

"Yessir," Tripp said. Hagen marched off to supervise some other ranch activity, and Tripp turned to his own horse. "Think we'll catch 'em?" Andy snorted. "Me either. Still, it should be a helluva ride." Tripp swung easily into the saddle and turned the horse toward town to put the word out on the spectacularly efficient regional grapevine.

(H/C)

The homestead was a flurry of activity. Shoes glowed in forges. Men checked and rechecked their tack. Horses shifted their hooves restlessly, reading the excitement, sensing the scope of the day ahead of them. Men greeted friends. Tripp, to one side, studied the group. About fifty men had come, a motley assortment of mountain men who would do this for the thrill of the ride as much as for the goal and a few fortune hunters who came purely for the pay. Tripp doubted many of those would be with them at the end of the day. He knew the mountains. He gave his own horse a quiet pat on the neck. Andy was a smallish dun, half thoroughbred, half brumby, nothing remarkable to look at, but anyone who had ever been with them at the end of a long day knew Andy's worth. Tripp had no doubt that his horse would go until they succeeded or until the chase was called off.

Hagen surged out of the house, along the front sidewalk, and to the large yard. He jumped into a wagon, giving him a more satisfactory platform to speak from. The riders gathered round. "Gentleman, I thank you all for the speed with which you have answered my summons. My mare, the mare from Old Regret, is running with the most cunning mob of brumbies ever seen on the ranges. You all know Horatio. We will capture him as well as regain my mare. This is his last day of freedom." The inexperienced cheered lustily, and the experienced looked at each other.

Hagen found Tripp with his eyes and jerked his head imperiously, and Tripp led Hagen's horse alongside the wagon. Hagen jumped into the saddle, picking up the reins a bit too abruptly. The horse flattened his ears, but he was accustomed to his rider and really expected nothing else. Hagen, of course, was riding a thoroughbred, a very nice horse, in fact, but he could have been a better one if better ridden. Hagen was not unskilled, but he and his mount always remained two completely distinct beings, even on a hard ride, in the middle of joint effort. It always galled Hagen that his pedigreed thoroughbred, the fastest horse on the ranch, could beat Andy by lengths in a timed trial but just barely kept up with him during an actual day's work. Hagen, of course, never assigned the fault for this to himself. Hagen's horse did.

Ignoring his horse's silent comment with the ears, Hagen swept the crowd with his eye and pushed his horse to the front of them. "Gentlemen, there will be a reward, to be divided among you as you like, when the mare is recovered. One hundred pounds!" They cheered, and the horses leaped into action, pounding down the drive with Hagen in the lead, turning toward the mountains. Tripp mounted Andy and sent him after the pack, carefully restrained. "Don't start the day out at full speed, you fool," he said to Hagen, who was safely out of earshot. "This day will be decided at the end of it."

(H/C)

Horatio was uneasy. He tested the wind, circled to a different vantage point, and tested it again. Nothing. If there was danger, it was coming from downwind, approaching stealthily. His instincts, honed by years of responsibility, assured him that there was danger. He trotted to the top of a hill and scanned as far as he could with all his senses. Below him, Calleigh stood at the edge of the herd watching, wondering why he was so tense, yet knowing him well enough by now to trust that there was a reason. The last few days had been a revelation to Calleigh. Freedom. No bits, no halters, no harsh hands. Nothing but the rolling mountainsides and the stars at night. And there was Horatio. She trotted up the hill to join him. He was enough taller than she was that his neck arched perfectly over hers. They stood together, Horatio questing, Calleigh curious.

There was still no scent, but the wind was behind them. Instead, Horatio's first clue was the faintest vibration transmitted through the ground, felt through his sensitive hooves. A vague rumbling ran through the mountain from a distance, slowly drawing closer. Hoofbeats. Hundreds of hoofbeats. Horatio wheeled, pushing Calleigh back slightly, and his sharp neigh brought the whole herd to attention. He launched into a gallop, swinging around behind them, urging them into action, and the herd started to run. Behind them, the riders burst over the next hill, and the chase was on.

Horatio was everywhere. He led the charge enough to give them direction and swept the sides enough to keep the herd tightly grouped and urge on the stragglers. They shot across the mountain at full speed, but the pursuit was relentless. A pattern gradually developed. The riders behind, swinging their fearsome stockwhips, were trying to turn the wild horses, to guide them into a dead end gully or turn them back against the wall of their pursuers, forming a corral with horses and riders. Horatio, of course, knew what they were trying to do, and as often as they turned the herd, Horatio turned them back, always away from the dead ends, away from the shouting riders behind. The group of riders was already thinning out a bit, as the softer of them fell or simply pulled up, weighing themselves against the terrain and realizing that their skills were lacking.

Hagen, pushing his thoroughbred along, was still at the front of the pack. Tripp, still restraining Andy, wasn't far behind. Hagen tried to close the gap to the herd himself, and the thoroughbred stalled, refusing to extend himself more when his rider refused to help him. Hagen cursed his mount and turned slightly to call back to Tripp. "Tripp! Wheel them to the right!"

Tripp gathered Andy with his hands, legs, and heart, asking for more, and the horse responded, lengthening out, slowly widening the distance between the riders and himself, slowly closing the gap to the herd. He raced along the wing, and Tripp swung his stockwhip, not touching a horse with the end of the long lash, just using the sound to direct them. They flinched away and started to shift. Horatio, on the other side, tried to push them back, and Tripp redoubled his efforts, raising echoes from the ridges with the whip. The herd tried to swing right, Horatio blocked them, and the mad charge suddenly disintegrated into a standstill. The riders behind quickly pulled their own horses up, fanning out slowly to surround the herd. Tripp held the mob, his whip coiled and ready. The wild horses milled, confused, trapped between the whip and their leader. Horatio saw the slowly closing line of riders reaching out to encircle them, and he pushed his way through the herd to the open front. Tripp was there. He and Horatio locked eyes, and Tripp read the thought. He cracked his stockwhip sharply, but Horatio did not jump back. Instead, he charged forward, under the whip, almost knocking into Andy as he swept by. Calleigh followed him, then another, then the whole herd, bursting through the not-yet-closed circle. Hagen cursed, and the chase resumed.

Horatio led them deeper into the mountains. The group behind grew smaller yet, but those remaining were the toughest. This was the longest chase he had ever been involved in, and the herd was spreading out, despite his best efforts. The foals could not sustain this run, and their mothers fell back with them. Horatio galloped around to his two young surrogates, pushing them forward with the silent communication of horses. They led the herd on as he suddenly peeled off to the side, angling back toward the riders. Many men had tried to catch Horatio over the years. If he was the one they wanted, maybe the pursuit would follow him and leave the others alone. Calleigh, seeing him split off, started after him, and the scraggly-maned horse tried to push her back. She showed her heels to him, darting past, following the red stallion. Horatio, furious, bared his teeth and snapped at her, and she shifted easily out of the way, galloping along with him. She refused to accept any surrogates. Behind them, the riders saw the herd divide, and they swung off on the angle, following the two who were the designated prize of the day.

Two horses could at least move more efficiently than a whole herd, and Horatio and Calleigh opened up their lead again. Horatio kept angling up, heading for a well-remembered hill. The riders read the intention. They yelled and whipped and spurred, but their own horses were starting to tire. The chase swept up the mountain, and Horatio with Calleigh at his heels jumped across the top and down onto the precipitous slope of the other side. Let any rider who could try to follow them down that!

Every rider in the pursuit drew rein as they hit the top of the hill. Eyes bugged as they stared down that slope, and even Hagen shook his head, for once acknowledging defeat. Then, a clatter of hoofbeats came up behind them, hoofbeats that weren't stopping. Andy and Tripp, having been knocked to the back of the group at the halt where they were nearly run over by the herd, had made up the deficit. Tripp knew that cliff, but he also knew his horse. He balanced Andy for the initial jump, and his great-hearted dun snapped his knees up like a show horse as he leaped over the edge. The other riders were speechless, but Hagen quickly recovered. "Frank!" he shouted. "You catch those two, or you don't have a job anymore!"

Tripp heard but had other things on his mind just then. The ground not only had the unrelenting angle but was filled with holes, rocks, and scrub brush, even littered with a fallen log now and then. Tripp leaned back, keeping his body parallel to gravity to hold their balance, keeping enough of a contact on the reins that he could help Andy if he stumbled. Ahead of them, Horatio was leading down the slope, and Calleigh followed absolutely in his tracks, trusting his knowledge of the ground. Down, always down, Andy swerving to dodge the holes, placing his feet unerringly. A fallen tree was ahead of them, a good three feet thick through the trunk. Tripp tightened his legs slightly, pushing Andy up onto the bit, collecting him, and even on that slope, Andy got his haunches set under him for the jump and pushed off. They soared over the log, slipped slightly on landing, then recovered. Down, down, eternally down, it seemed. Finally, they landed at the bottom, and Tripp let out a long breath as he continued the chase.

(H/C)

Up above, the watchers on the hill were speechless. There was grudging respect in Hagen's eyes. Tripp had made it, even on a horse with only half a pedigree. He turned his own thoroughbred away. "Well, lads, it's a long way home. Nothing more we can do." They all started off, walking slowly to cool the steaming horses.

Behind him, Hagen heard a comment by an unrecognized voice. "Maybe the boss should've been riding Andy." Furious suddenly at his own failure of the day and attributing it entirely to his horse, he jerked the reins and kicked his big gray in the sides. Everyone, horse or human, has a breaking point, and the thoroughbred abruptly hit his. Hagen was caught off guard, and the first buck unseated him, but the horse put in a few more for good measure. Unburdened, he stretched his legs to a gallop, heading back for home and the grain he knew he had earned today. With his speed now unhindered, he was the first from the day's adventurers to make it back to the ranch house.

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh raced across the hillsides, Tripp a thorn of pursuit that clung to their heels. All three horses by now, plus the man, were drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. Calleigh's lungs were burning, her legs tiring. She had been away from the mountains for two years, and this day had been an extreme reintroduction. Slowly, her stride began to shorten. She could have simply stopped, but she didn't. Horatio could have used untapped reserves to go on alone, but he didn't. Andy and Tripp, relentless, could have pulled away, but they didn't. Four great hearts were on display. Gradually, Andy closed the gap. They ran across a snowfield, the hooves sending the snow flying, then back onto grass. Andy was alongside. Across another hillside, and Andy was in front. Tripp swung him back around to face them, cracking the whip, and the other two stopped. They all stood there, sides heaving, sweat dripping off them. Tripp reached forward a fraction and bumped Andy lightly on the neck with his hand, and the horse arched his neck, accepting the wordless praise.

Calleigh's legs were trembling slightly, but her head was still up. Horatio's neck arched protectively over hers as he stood with her. They both looked directly at Tripp, and he looked back at them. An eternity passed. Finally, Tripp's gruff voice broke the silence. "I hated that job anyway," he announced. He tipped the brim of his hat in salute to both of them, then pulled Andy away.

(H/C)

Hagen was limping home on his sprained ankle, and the crutch he had broken from a tree wasn't helping much. Hoofbeats sounded behind him. He turned to see Tripp on Andy cantering up. "Tripp, glad to see you. Give me your horse."

Tripp drew rein, studying him. "No."

"What do you mean, no? You're my employee. Now give me your horse."

"Not any longer," Tripp said. "I quit." He turned Andy and cantered on.

"Tripp!" Hagen's curses chased him out of sight until only the mountains remained to hear his words. They didn't care.

(H/C)

On a far away slope, Horatio and Calleigh, having caught their breath, were cantering side by side, tired but free. Ahead, the huge, golden orb was dropping behind the next slope.

Horatio and Calleigh were cantering off into the sunset.

(H/C)

Calleigh woke up abruptly, realizing that they were both still on the couch. Must have fallen asleep during the movie. She felt for the remote and switched the annoying voice of the TV off. Horatio was sound asleep himself, one hand entangled in her hair, and she nudged him gently. "Horatio. Come on, let's go to bed."

Horatio stirred faintly, but his eyes didn't open. His hand tightened in her hair, and his voice was barely audible. "Don't kick me for saying it, but you have the silkiest mane."

"What?" Calleigh stared at him. He was motionless again, breathing deeply. Oh well, she decided, we can always move to the bed later. Knowing how tired he had been, she didn't have the heart to persist in waking him up. She did wonder what he was dreaming, though. Maybe she'd heard him wrong. Anyway, it did seem to be about her. She nestled back against him, content, and quickly fell back into her own dreams, which were definitely of him.

Outside the window, the sun was setting over Miami, painting the city red and gold.


End file.
